


Cold Showers and Nightmare Fuel

by FelisMargarita



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Unrequited Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Unrequited Lust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-09
Updated: 2015-01-09
Packaged: 2018-03-06 21:06:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3148544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FelisMargarita/pseuds/FelisMargarita
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[Sam Winchester - 1st P.O.V.] - young teenager Sam, while both Dean and Dad have left him home alone, is interrupted during his shower by something that haunts him for the rest of his life. </p>
<p>	[Excerpt] -<br/>The water was bliss. I didn't know how long I had been standing there, thoughts ebbing and flowing with the steady drum of the shower against my skin. All I knew is that my fingertips were beyond pruned, and my extremities were so cold that they had gone pleasantly numb. Idly, I ran my hands up the lengths of my forearms, enjoying the slight tingle that was left behind. I didn't have a care in the world. Nothing swirled around in my adolescent mind that could interrupt the euphoric disruption of the temperature.<br/>That was until I heard a sound.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cold Showers and Nightmare Fuel

                I was fourteen when I first had noticed him to his entirety. Perhaps it was my coming of age: puberty hit me like a crash test dummy hits a windshield. Yet, somewhere while being lost in a tangle of limbs too long for my torso, my teenaged hormones would never let me forget that night. After that, I could never look at him the same. Something about the hard contrasting splatter of freckles over his face, shoulders and back, the way he lit up whenever something intrigued him, or even his weird, borderline-unhealthy obsession with booze, porn and apple pie, -everything about him made something churn in the depth of my stomach. Even after all these years of running from it, if I close my eyes long enough, I can still see them as clear as day, burnt into my retinas. It will forever be engrained in my brain.

                It was July 17th, and the summer was so hot, if Dad didn't come back from his hunt in Oklahoma to two puddles he once called sons, I would have been very surprised. I could swear I could feel sweat dripping down between my shoulder blades like Niagara. Dean was out for the night, catching a movie with some friends after they egged him on for the better half of the afternoon. Normally, Dean wasn't allowed outside three feet from me; we practically grew up in each other's back pockets. However, once I'd hit my second growth spurt, Dad deemed me safe enough to stay home alone for more than an hour. And, of course, Dean was taking every moment to get away from me to milk this opportunity. I didn't mind all that much: it was way too hot to be wearing anything more than a t-shirt and boxers, and with nobody in the house, I didn't have to wear a god damn thing. I was a happy and slightly cooler man. Plus, I didn't have to put up with Dean watching those shitty, medical soap operas after dinner, or waiting a fortnight to get my turn in the shower.

                Dinner consisted of whatever was left after two, teenaged boys had their way with the pantry. In this case, this meant my dinner was made up of Lucky Charms at nine in the afternoon. I never knew what it was about having cereal after noon, but, it always tasted better the later it got. After digging my way to the bottom of the bowl of sugary goodness, I slurped up the milk greedily, put the bowl down and leaned back with a satisfied sigh. I picked up my dinnerware, disposing of it in the empty kitchen sink (for some reason, Dad liked having things meticulously clean, which I suppose Dean inherited). Then, I scampered up the staircase, beelining directly to the bathroom. I didn't have to take a number and stand in line this time, listening to sweet siren song of the shower from the other side of the door. This time, I waltzed right in, unable to stop the shit-eating grin from spreading over my face as I had the first shower for once in my life.

                The water was bliss. I didn't know how long I had been standing there, thoughts ebbing and flowing with the steady drum of the shower against my skin. All I knew is that my fingertips were beyond pruned, and my extremities were so cold that they had gone pleasantly numb. I would gladly accept the dull, icy feeling to the sweltering heat of outside. I flipped the water off, leaning back against the wall of the shower to gradually heat back up again. Idly, I ran my hands up the lengths of my forearms, enjoying the slight tingle that was left behind. I didn't have a care in the world. Nothing swirled around in my adolescent mind that could interrupt the euphoric disruption of the temperature.

                That was until I heard a sound.

                I perked up, gaze snapping over towards the door. I could faintly hear the sound of clumsy footprints, stalling every once in a while before steadily continuing up the stairs. Logically, I told myself, it must be Dean who may have returned early, inebriated off of boot-legged alcohol. However, Dad's relentless lessons had taught me something far more prevalent: we were Winchesters, and trouble would follow us wherever we went. My expectations made a direct U-turn into darker territory, conjuring thoughts of witches, vampires, and/or werewolves that had broken into the house. And naturally, since I'd been wearing nothing more than my birthday suit all day, I was without my hunting knife or any weapons of defense. I suppressed a groan. How wonderful. Dean was going to come home, find me naked and dead in the bathroom, and mock me for it for the rest of my after-life.

                I cussed under my breath, quietly hopping out of the shower. If I could just get to my room without becoming monster-meat, I had a chance at survival. I wrapped the singular, white towel meant for drying hands around my waist. My hips jutted out awkwardly, and the towel sagged like it didn't know how to grip on my developing form. I had to keep a firm hand at my side to keep the stupid thing up. With my available hand, I fingered the door-handle, taking a deep breath before I pushed it open an inch or so. Leaning in, I peered out of the crack, scanning for any changes to my environment. Dad was always on Dean's case about rushing blindly into a hunt, and I didn't feel like hearing a repeat of his lecture. Aside, now that the hunt had come to me, this was more about my survival.

                Adrenaline pushed me forward, moving light and fast into my bedroom. I didn't bother closing the door behind me. I knew the click would give away my presence. Instead, I opted to ducking behind a corner, shucking into sweatpants. If I was going to die, I was going to die with some dignity damn it. Quickly, I padded over to my bed side table, flicking the drawer open to pull out my hunting knife. I kept my footfalls light as not attract whatever monster had wandered into the house. It wasn't until I had my knife in my hand that I dare brave heading out to the hall again. I paused at the top of the staircase, shutting my eyes to listen for any foreign noises or sounds of activity.

                Success. I pin-pointed a general location. My attention focused on the span of hallway past the stairs, winding past the master bedroom where Dad was staying, and then the far bedroom that Dean occupied. I inched forward, trying to hide a body of sharp, awkward angles in the shadows the walls cast. It was stupid looking, I'm sure. However, the less likely it was to see me, the more likely I was to walk out alive. I paused outside the master bedroom, peering through the open door into Dad's room; it was just as meticulous and otherwise untouched as he had left it. That narrowed down my search. I approached Dean's door, noting how it had gone from shut tight to cracked slightly. I had whatever it was cornered. I tried to still my breath so I could listen uninterrupted.

                It sounded like somebody (something?) was throwing something (someone?) around the room. I heard it move from the far wall, to the wall closest to the door, then to the bed. If I mapped everything out correctly, whatever it was, it should be facing away from the door. If it was, I could go for a surprise attack and hopefully sever something vital. However, if it wasn't, I was throwing myself in way over my head. A metaphorical throwing of a lamb to a lion, only a lot less pretty considering the nasties we bumped heads with. I unsheathed my knife slowly and placed the cover at my feet, never prying my eyes off of the off-white paint of the door. I nudged forward, finally peering into the room through the inch-wide crack between door and frame.

                On initial inspection, it didn't seem to have seen me. It was bi-pedal, as far as I could tell. It had deeply-colored denim covering its legs as it loomed over something the bed. I could barely see a glimpse of tanned skin where the fabric of its pants gave away to the fabric of its shirt. It also seemed to have extra limbs protruding around its hip area. A mutant vampire? A shape-shifter? I forced my thoughts back and let instinct take over, lying in wait for an opportunity to strike.  
                It took a shaky breath. It sighed. And then, it moaned.  
                It cut through the silence like a blade. The logistics of the situation slowly clicked into place. I stepped back to the sheath I'd placed on the ground, leaning against the wall behind me, absolutely appalled. It had chosen Dean's room because it was Dean. And, presumably, the extra set of legs around his waist belonged to the lady who was making those wanton sounds underneath of him. Gross. I pushed my weight off of the wall without making too much noise, readying to head back to my room. However, while the entirety of my brain screeched at me to cower in the safety of my room, I couldn't bring myself to take that first step away. Instead, my body responded in the ways I wanted it to move the least. I peered back inside the room.

                Teenaged curiosity. That's what I tried to chalk it up to. I flitted my gaze around the room before uncomfortably settling on the girl. I could just barely see her face from the angle I was at. Her face was all screwed up, painted eyes were shut tight whereas her mouth was left open in a neat, little 'o'. Whatever was left of her lip gloss was smeared along her lip line, and presumably, the rest of it could be found on Dean. I could see her bite her lip, drawing in a particularly sharp breath.  
                "Oh, God. Dean, I-" The sentence fell short, tumbling into a moan. I tried to see what on earth Dean could be doing to illicit such a reaction. I watched as his long, sturdy fingers teased her t-shirt up the span of her flat stomach, pushing up past her bra. His hands fell into place, cupping around the generous flesh of her breasts. A primal moan fell out of my brother, and I felt ill. But no matter how much my innards twisted, I couldn't look away.

                Something animal took over, and I could visibly see it crawl through Dean's form. His hips thrust forward as he shoved the dainty fabric upwards, leaving nothing more than space between his hands and her torso. Her head tossed back as I watched my brother work those skilled hands along the milky white of her skin. His hands, hands I'd watching skillfully and masterfully dissemble, clean and reassemble guns, as well as other detailed tasks, were now clawing and tugging at this girl like he was completely coming undone.  
                I felt a familiar tightness between my legs. It wasn't until I had absent-mindedly adjusted myself that the depravity of the situation sunk in. I was watching my brother banging a friend (girlfriend?) of his, and instead of watching the girl, I was thinking about how Dean's hands looked on her. And the worst bit? I was getting hard because of it. I was getting off on it.  
                I watched his hands move away from her tits for the moment, trailing back down to the bright, red skirt splayed up around her hips. I supposed there was no such thing as modesty in the bedroom. His thumbs hooked under the black fabric of her panties, sliding them down the expanse of her thighs. Kinky bastard was going to fuck her up the skirt. His head tipped down, pressing soft butterfly kisses along her stomach, down to the top of her hips. He continued downwards, steady, unwavering, hungry. The sound she made when he finally was face to face with the wet folds of her vagina reverberated off the walls of the bedroom.

                I bit the knuckle of my left hand. My dominant hand, somewhere in the tangles of "I should go, this is so wrong" and "it's not fair how good he looks when he's doing this", had followed Dean's mouth, travelling ever farther south. I palmed the length of my dick, shuddering at the absolute fire that shot through my skin. It took a few strokes before I had the balls to slip my hand under the fabric of my boxers. I felt my knees threaten to buckle. I bit down harder to distract myself.  
                For a moment, it seemed he paused to look up at her. She sat up and nodded down at my brother with a dazed smile. I was sort of glad I couldn't see the familiar flint of green flicker from her gaze down to concentrate at the task at hand. I probably would have lost it then and there. The girl made a strangled noise, falling back on the bed as she covered her face. Her knees pressed together around my brother's shoulders, though it didn't faze him in the slightest. If anything, it fed the fire between them more.   
                A hot smirk painted over his lips before they parted, allowing his tongue to flicker out, licking a hot strip upwards. His hands dug into the thick flesh of her thighs, keeping her hips from canting into him. He moved slow, tongue sliding between slick folds of skin. I couldn't help but mimick his movements with my thumb, imagining how she felt with Dean worshipping the area between her legs with his mouth. Her moans blended in with mine, which I muffled with my hand.

                It seemed the better part of a century before Dean finally pulled away from her with a wet 'pop'. A moan died on her lips. I couldn't tell if her legs were actually shaking because of Dean, or if I the one shaking trying to imagine it.  
                "You ready babe?"  
                I bit down harder until I felt the hot surge of copper slip past my lips. My stomach flipped over on itself. I had never heard Dean sound like that; it was unlike anytime I'd heard him before: instead of the 'mighter-than-thou' big brother tone I'd come to know, the voice that slipped out of him now was heavy with lust and raring to please, very much the good little soldier he was raised to be. I felt that I could cry, either from how bad I wanted to hear that voice of his calling out for me, or from the shame of it all.  
                "Yes, Dean. Please, fuck me baby..." She sighed against him, leaning up again to press another soft kiss on his lips. Her fingertips curled over the swell of his shoulder muscles, digging in greedily. She settled her chin in the crook of his neck, peering over Dean's shoulder, humming happily. And for the briefest of moments, I saw her eyes flick up and out the door.

                Red-hot panic shot me out of my stupor. I finally did what I should have done at least twenty minutes prior: I booked it out of the hall as quickly and quietly as I could, beelining for my bedroom. From somewhere in the space behind me, I heard a very brief discussion take place.  
                "You okay? Something wrong baby?"  
                A pause, followed by a girlish laugh. "No, I guess my eyes are playing tricks on me. I just- Oh, fuck Dean! Right there!"  
                I firmly shut the door behind me, hoping that it acted as a sound barrier of sorts. For the most part, it worked. However, no amount of door-slamming could erase the keening sounds from my mind. I flopped back on the single provided for me, staring up at the stuccoed ceiling, defeated. My dick gave a violent throb, matching the hard pulsating in my head. I threw a gangly arm over my eyes, trying as hard as I could to separate myself from the situation I've put myself in. If I couldn't see anything, maybe I couldn't see how depraved I looked, hand shoved down my boxers as I got myself off.

                I didn't last more than five minutes. I came harder than I'd ever come before, biting the pillow to muffle the scream of 'Dean' as I creamed myself. Once I came down, I kicked my boxers off and rolled over, pulling the sheets up to my chin. The heat was excruciating. However, it was the last of my worries. I accepted the blackness of unconsciousness happily, hoping that tomorrow I would wake up and it would be all a horrid, perverted dream. I would have gladly taken waking up in the backseat of Dad's truck, sticky and embarrassed from a wet dream over this. Hell, I wouldn't mind it if Dean mocked me relentlessly about it for weeks after.  
                The next morning, I woke up naked, in my bed. It wasn't a dream.  
                I spent the morning in the shower until the hot water ran out.


End file.
